


Reward System

by lebeauxderdaben



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M, Manipulation, dark!john, touch starvation, touch starved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:41:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lebeauxderdaben/pseuds/lebeauxderdaben
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the wandofhawthorn's prompt: "Everyone knows that John will do anything for Sherlock, but how much will Sherlock do for John? In true Holmesian fashion, John decides to run an experiment on positive reinforcement. Optional: include a hot water bottle, John’s laptop, and Chinese takeaway."</p>
<p>...</p>
<p>I do not know what this positive affirmation is that you speak of.</p>
<p>If you don't like dark!John, don't read.</p>
<p>Also, sorry for suckiness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reward System

_“I thought you’d be done by now, pet.”_

_“Yeah, well, he’s being difficult.”_

_“If you’re having so much_ trouble _, I could always send my Tiger after him. He misses you, you know.”_

_“Mmh. No, I can deal with it.”_

_“Are you sure? This might require my personal attention.”_

_“No, I just need to…start thinking like him.”_

_“Hmm. Well, chop-chop, Johnny-boy, I’m getting impatient.”_

****

It was dark outside, the type of dark that was peculiar to London, and probably most big cities as well – saturated with street lights, the bright stars of city buildings in the edges of your vision. John sighed as he climbed the steps, rolling his shoulders and making his way up to the flat. He could hear the violin going and he snorted. Sherlock was in another mood. That meant he’d probably have to make his own tea. He felt a flare of annoyance at his flat-mate – lately, all Sherlock had done was sit around and sulk, refusing to dress past the robe and trousers, composing maudlin pieces on his violin. John knew for a fact that a violent case wasn’t coming any time soon to relieve him of his boredom, and he’d just have to deal with that.

 

Sherlock, for some reason, didn’t have any lights on in the flat, and John cursed as he stumbled into the shadowed room – _best to establish right off that you’re not in a good mood_ – flicking on a lamp and shrugging his coat onto his armchair. Sherlock looked at him, briefly pausing his music, and then returned to it with a shrug. He was stretched out on the sofa, his feet on the arm, violin lazily resting between shoulder and chin. John gave him a scathing glare and then went to his room to shower and change. He had a date tonight with Lily, tired as he was – they hadn’t gone somewhere nice in a while, and she was beginning to get testy. He sighed as he pulled on a slightly fancier shirt than he usually wore and his good trousers.

 

When he went back out into the living room, nearly a half an hour later, Sherlock was in the exact same position, except he had John’s phone in hand, the bright screen casting deep shadows on his face, making his eyes look even more sunken. “Sherlock!” he snapped, not even bothering to reach for the mobile. “What do you think you’re doing?” _Yes, he goes through my texts; I’ll start there_ – he noticed his coat on the sofa had been picked up, searched through, placed back again carelessly. Yes, John was used to this by now.

 

Sherlock didn’t deign to respond, as it was obvious. After a moment of fuming silence from John, he turned to the doctor and offered the phone. “I asked you for tea, and you didn’t text back. And you didn’t make tea.” He turned his attention to the violin once more, picking up the bow from where he’d left it on the floor. “You could make some now.”

 

John let out an aggravated huff of air, as if trying to restrain himself from strangling Sherlock. “I _told_ you that I had late shift today. In fact, I even asked if you would make tea before I got home.” His glaring had no effect, and he shook his head as slipped his coat on, the mobile going back into his pocket. “And I can’t make tea; I’ve got a date.”

 

“Mmh. I did see your texts.” There was a mocking undercurrent to Sherlock’s words, although his pose was languid as ever as he drew the bow slowly over a string, contemplating a note. “For someone so fervent with your affections through electronic messaging, I give you two a week. You might as well just save the trouble, break it off now, and make me some tea.”

 

John flushed red. “Stop looking through my texts, Sherlock, and stay out of my love life.”

 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “I don’t see the point. It saves me the trouble of deducing.”

 

Making an angry noise John turned to the door. Before he stepped out the door, however, he looked back at the detective. Speaking over the disjointed collections of notes coming from the violin, he said in frustration, “You know what? I’m not speaking to you. Not until you learn some decency.”

 

A derisive snort. “How very mature.”

 

With a shake of his head, John tramped down the stairs to find a taxi and meet Lily.

****

“There still isn’t any tea made.”

 

John sat at the kitchen table, eating a piece of toast and reading the morning paper. He’d returned from Lily’s place only an hour or so ago and had found Sherlock _still_ on the couch, albeit with his music sheets a little more filled. Studiously ignoring him, he’d gotten into casual clothes, washed up, and made himself breakfast. Sherlock, of course, hadn’t stooped to making his own tea. _Time to show him you’re serious._

 

“You can’t have actually meant what you said yesterday.” The laughter in Sherlock’s voice made John’s mouth stiffen, and he just continued reading. Sherlock sat up, and John smirked inwardly. Triumph. The news wasn’t particularly interesting – never was – but his eyes were fixed on the cramped lines and poor quality photos as he felt Sherlock standing behind him. “You’re not ten years old, John. This isn’t grade school.” Satisfyingly, there was a hint of uncertainty where before was mockery. “You can’t just not talk to me.” The only sound was John sipping his orange juice.

 

There was the distinct feeling of a hand about to touch John’s shoulder. He willed himself not to move. _He’s touch starved – haven’t you noticed, Johnny? The only one who touches him is you and your bat of a landlady._ John didn’t think he was breathing – and then the hand retracted. He could practically see Sherlock clasp his hands behind his back once more before he left the kitchen, and it was only then that he allowed himself to look his flatmate up and down. A small smile leaked onto his face. He thought it was working so far.

 

****

Sherlock was outrageously stubborn, but John had accounted for that. He’d brought himself takeout every night (although he left it in the fridge, and he did notice that there was always some gone in the morning), and stayed out at work or on a date during the days. At random moments, Sherlock would try and trip him up, making innocuous comments to get a rise out of him, but John held his ground. For three days, they didn’t exchange words, and John didn’t touch Sherlock – nothing so much as a brush as they passed by.

 

On the fourth morning, John woke up as usual to silence in the flat. _He won’t be able to stand it for very long._ John didn’t know how accurate Jim was, but he knew he was getting tired of ignoring the detective. _He was lying about the skull – he’s become dependent on your conversation_. Sherlock didn’t seem all that dependent, but then, Jim generally knew what he was talking about. After running some water over his face, John made his way to the kitchen, ready to cook up some breakfast. He’d been working long hours for the past few weeks, and he ached all over, so the smell of freshly made tea was heavenly this early in the morning.

 

John blinked. Tea. That _was_ the smell of tea, wasn’t it? And yes – there on the stove sat a still-warm kettle of tea. Beside it, John’s phone rested on a sheet of paper. After inspection, it seemed to be instructions on how to set up a voice-recognition password for his mobile. John smiled.

 

When he’d poured himself a cuppa a few minutes later, he walked into the sitting room where Sherlock was curled up on the sofa – no longer arrogantly sprawled, but facing the back cushions and folded up on himself. John sat carefully, the silence lasting for a long moment. It seemed natural, then, when John’s hand cautiously dropped into Sherlock’s curls, carding through the dark hair. It was John’s own thank you, his version of an apology, and when Sherlock looked up at him, slightly off-kilter by the sudden affection, John only smiled. Then he was up, heading towards a shower and rubbing the back of his neck.

 

_First phase of the experiment – success._


End file.
